


Out of the Clear Blue Sky

by SmashingTeacups



Series: Out of the Clear Blue Sky [1]
Category: Outlander & Related Fandoms, Outlander (TV), Outlander Series - Diana Gabaldon
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, NSFW, One Quote Oneshot Book 2, Pilots
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-19
Updated: 2019-10-19
Packaged: 2020-12-23 20:37:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,454
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21087473
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SmashingTeacups/pseuds/SmashingTeacups
Summary: In which Captain James Fraser meets Captain Claire Beauchamp at a bar in London Heathrow Airport.My entry for the One Quote Oneshot Book 2 challenge.





	Out of the Clear Blue Sky

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: My sincere thanks to @notevenjokingfic and @balfeheughlywed for organizing this second round of One Quote Oneshot using quotes from Dragonfly in Amber. You'll find my quote in bold in the text of this story!
> 
> Credit for the GENIUS idea of making these two pilots goes to the lovely @Sabaxoxoxo, so thanks for the plotbunny, love! And I would have been absolutely LOST without @fierceweebadger, who was not only my beta for this fic, but created the GORGEOUS moodboard (see tumblr and twitter!) and provided constant encouragement and inspiration.
> 
> This fic probably errs on the side of mature, not necessarily explicit, but it was on the borderline, so I rated up. Either way it's very not safe for work, friends!

_ THE HILTON AT BOSTON LOGAN INTERNATIONAL AIRPORT  
_ _ Wednesday, 1 May, 2019, 23:52 _

“You’re late,” I scold him, without looking up. I can feel him standing behind me, feel the guilt radiating off of him in waves. To anyone else, I’m sure I would sound irritated. He’ll hear the humor in my tone, though, the bite of sarcasm. He knows me better than to think I’m actually upset. 

“I ken,” he sighs, and I hear the rasp of his dress shoes across the carpet, the uncharacteristic drag of his feet. He’s exhausted. It’s been a long day of inclement weather, delayed and rerouted flights. He was supposed to be here twelve hours ago. “I’m sorry, Sassenach.”

**_Sassenach._ He had called me that from the first; the Gaelic word for an outlander, a stranger. An Englishman. First in jest, and then in affection.**

He’s decidedly affectionate now as he sweeps my hair off to one side and bends to press his lips to my neck. I smile, dropping my lashes.

“It’s all right." I turn slowly to face him, taking the lapels of his suit in my fingertips as he drops his forehead to mine. Our lips meet gently — once, twice — before I murmur against his mouth, “I think I know of a way you can make it up to me.”

His smile curves along mine. “Oh, aye?”

“Aye,” I whisper, surrendering willingly to the press of his hand as he guides me back towards the bed.

* * *

_ LONDON HEATHROW AIRPORT  
_ _ Tuesday, 1 May, 2018, 20:48 _

** _One Year Earlier_ **

“Excuse me. Is this seat taken?” 

After an awkward, drawn-out pause, I glanced up from the clinking ice cubes in my gin and tonic. I had just enough time to glimpse the crisply-pressed uniform of a fellow pilot before the belated recognition struck that the stranger was talking to me. 

“Oh! Mm. Sorry,” I slurred around a half-swallowed, burning mouthful. “No, go right ahead.” 

I pressed a napkin to my mouth, shooting the man an apologetic smile as he slid onto the wooden stool next to me. He gave a faint nod, looking over at me with kind blue eyes that crinkled warmly in amusement. 

It took me three tries to force the last swallow of G&T past a suddenly constricted throat.

_ Christ, _he was good looking.

I dropped my gaze quickly to the bartop with a stern internal reminder not to bloody_ stare (for God's sake, Beauchamp). _ Still, I couldn’t help but keep glancing at him out of the corner of my eye as he asked the bartender for a single-malt Scotch, neat. 

I was almost certain I’d never laid eyes on this man before. His wasn’t a face easily forgotten. He had striking features — high cheekbones and a strong jaw; a straight, handsome nose; a cleft chin; soft, full lips; blue eyes webbed with smile lines that made him look friendly, approachable. He was clean-shaven and straight-backed, immaculate in his dress and form; even without the triple stripes on his suit cuffs or the aviation wings pinned to his lapel, I would have easily pegged him as a pilot. Former military, if I were to wager a guess. 

Once he had his drink in hand, he shifted in his seat, angling slightly toward me. “I dinna think I’ve ever had the pleasure,” he began, swirling the amber liquid gently in its tumbler. “But ye’re Captain Beauchamp, are ye no’? _ The _ Captain Beauchamp?”

I let out a soft laugh at that, eyebrows lifting briefly. “The very same,” I said, taking a sip of my drink to hide my embarrassment. I hated the notoriety, but was trying to accept it graciously these days. 

A few months ago, a young passenger on one of my flights had managed to get a Lego lodged in the back of his throat. It had been a sparsely populated flight, and for once there were no doctors onboard. When the flight attendant burst into the cockpit gasping for help, I had my copilot take control of the plane and ran back to assist. It had been several years since I was a medic in the Royal Air Force, but the muscle memory was still there. I spent three minutes trying Heimlich — chest thrusts, back thrusts, blind finger sweeps — but couldn’t dislodge the obstruction. In a last-ditch effort to save the child, I’d performed an emergency tracheotomy right there in the aisle of the plane, and watched in relief as his color returned from a terrifying blue-grey to pink. It wasa relatively straightforward procedure for any field-trained EMT, but you wouldn’t have known it from the heyday in the press. Despite my repeated and hearty protests, the airline insisted upon trotting me out as a hero, a poster girl. 

As it turned out, life on a pedestal wasn’t all it was cracked up to be.

I was surrounded by people every day, and yet I had never felt more isolated. There was an air of _ otherness _ to me now, apparently — an unseen barrier that accompanied ‘celebrity’ status. People wanted my autograph or picture, wanted to thank me for my service, wanted to congratulate me on being a hero. My passengers held me in great esteem, and there was certainly something to be said for that. But I found that the people closest to me in my life — friends, colleagues — generally fell into one of two camps: either they tried desperately to grasp their fifteen minutes of fame (giving ‘inside scoops’ to magazines or appearing in TV spots), or they were completely put off by the whole spectacle and eager to get as far away from it (me) as possible.

I couldn’t tell, from this man’s expression, which side he fell on. I was sure he had a preconceived opinion of me; most everyone did. But whatever it was, he held it behind a careful poker face. Still, his tone was kind as he tipped his glass toward mine in a silent cheers. “It was a fine thing ye did, wi’ the lad. Quick thinkin’ and a cool heid are the makings for a braw pilot, but it’s no’ every day they lead ye to save a life. At least not in this business.”

I gave him a tight-lipped smile, tilting my glass back to his in silent appreciation. “Thank you, Captain…?”

“Fraser,” he said. “James Fraser.” He took a sip of his whisky, and the corner of his mouth curled into a smile as he swallowed. “But please, call me Jamie.” 

“Claire,” I reciprocated, and held out my hand. He took it gently, his warm, calloused palm molding to mine, the pads of his fingertips coming to rest just above the pulse point in my wrist. 

For the space of several heartbeats, we both froze, barely breathing.

My eyes drew slowly up to his, seeking confirmation that it wasn’t just me… his touch — _ our _ touch — was nothing short of electric. 

In all fairness, it had been a while (_far _too long) since I’d had truly satisfying sex, been thoroughly taken apart in the bedroom. I was certain deprivation played a part in it, as did my undeniable attraction to this handsome stranger. 

But God, I’d never felt chemistry this immediate, this intense.

As our eyes locked, Jamie’s poker face briefly gave way to an awe that matched my own, the inky black of his pupils overpowering the blue that surrounded them. We were completely still, hands clasped between us, for several more beats of stunned silence before his Adam’s apple bobbed in a swallow and he slowly drew his hand away.

His mouth hung slightly open for a moment before he wet his lips and finally managed, “Where are ye from, Claire?” 

I took a deep drink from my glass to steady myself before daring to answer. “Oxford, originally. But I’ve been based out of London for the past ten years. You?”

“Grew up outside Inverness. Based in New York now.”

As I drained the last of my G&T, Captain Fraser — _ Jamie _ — signaled to the bartender for another round for each of us. I nodded my thanks, a warm, heady sensation settling deep in my belly at the realization that he meant to stay a while longer. Emboldened by the thought, I asked the next question in the inevitable getting-to-know-you series as we sized each other up, not so subtly attempting to determine our immediate compatibility. 

He’d grown up on a farm, had one sister, a mum who’d died young, a dad who still lived in Scotland. He’d enrolled in the Royal Air Force straight out of secondary school. Served in Afghanistan. Didn’t want to talk about it.

I’d grown up… _ everywhere_, with an itinerant archaeologist of an uncle. My parents were both gone. I’d enrolled in the Royal Air Force with the intention of becoming a doctor. Served in Iraq. Didn’t want to talk about it.

We talked about our work; who we knew in common, who our mentors had been, which routes and airports and cities we liked best. We compared notes on our companies (I worked for Virgin Atlantic, Jamie for Delta), talked shop about our planes, whinged about mechanical failures and flight delays and stale coffee and catty coworkers.

As we talked, our seats migrated somehow closer together, as did our limbs, until my knee was resting between his thighs, his forearm curved around the elbow I was leaning against the bartop.

Three drinks in, Jamie finally got up the gumption to ask the question we’d both been skirting around. “So… are ye…” he drawled a bit hoarsely, running his thumb around the rim of his glass. “Are ye seein’ anyone, then? Dating, I mean?” 

I shook my head. “No, not at the moment.” My gaze lingered over his empty left hand — no tan line either — but I figured better safe than sorry. “How about you? Are you... married? Seeing someone?”

He smiled in a way that struck me as pained. “Nah. Nah, I was, but…” He shrugged, took a sip of his whisky. “This, ah… this lifestyle takes its toll, ye ken.”

“Yes.” I nodded slowly. “It does.” A high stress job with long, unpredictable hours — days, sometimes weeks spent away from home. Coming home exhausted, wanting nothing more than a scalding hot shower and to sleep in your own bed. Sex became an obligation after so long away, no matter how tired or uninterested you were; from there it was a slippery slope into cold-shouldered mornings, fights over nothing, patience that wore thinner and thinner with each trip. I’d had more than one long-term relationship languish under the strain, and could tell by the look on Jamie’s face that he had too.

He nodded in return, and let his breath out in a shaky stream as I drew the edge of my pinky slowly along his. 

“It can get lonely,” he admitted quietly. “Sometimes.”

“It can,” I whispered. 

We both watched the languid, deliberate slide of our fingers in a silence that crackled and sparked with potential. One of us simply needed to be bold enough to seize it.

By that point, I was more than ready; I was _ burning _ for him, aching urgently in a way that made me uncharacteristically reckless. 

Tossing back the last of my drink, I finally decided to take the sodding leap. 

I pushed back my stool, gathered my purse, rose to my feet, then leaned down to speak very close to his ear. “I have a hotel room,” I told him in a low murmur. “At the Hilton, Terminal 4.” I watched as his chest rose and fell in shallow pants, the fullness of his bottom lip disappearing between his teeth. He nodded once. “Room 328. Give me ten minutes?”

“Aye,” he rasped.

And I strode off without a backward glance. Unhurried, sauntering, purposefully adding a subtle sway to my hips as I walked. 

Until I was well out of sight, that is — standing on the shuttle train to Terminal 4 with my chest heaving and my palm slick with sweat, slippery where it gripped the metal pole. I was running a frantic inventory in my head of what clothes I had packed, whether I should just leave on what I was wearing, whether I had time to shower, or… 

Back at the Hilton, I all but ran down the hall from the elevator to my room, and my shaking hand fumbled with the key card to the door so many times I nearly screamed in frustration. I was a goddamn _ pilot _ , for Christ’s sake; functioning under pressure was my _ job _, yet here I was, an utter frazzled wreck, and running out of time to get my composure back in check.

I kicked off my heels right inside the door, peeled off my stockings while hopping on one foot at a time, and flung the crisp layers of my uniform into a heap on the bathroom floor. I cranked the shower up as hot as it would go, and a quick two minute wash and shave of the most important bits later, I dashed out again, streaming water all over the tile as I quickly brushed my teeth, applied deodorant, and spritzed my neck, cleavage and wrists with perfume. I was flushed a nice rosy hue from the scalding shower, but my mascara was a streaky, bleeding mess; groaning, I wiped my makeup off entirely, knowing I wouldn’t have time to reapply. 

I had just barely gotten a towel wrapped around me and was digging through my suitcase for something — _ anything _ — to wear when the knock came at the door. 

Of course, leave it to an ex-military man to be _ precisely _ on time.

I froze, squeezing my eyes shut and hissing, “Shit. _ Shit!” _

For a moment I looked helplessly from the open suitcase to the door and back again, then decided, to hell with it: this whole _ thing _ was reckless, so why balk now? Squaring my shoulders, I took a long, deep breath and released it in a sharp exhale as I walked over to the door.

For the rest of my life, I would wish I’d had a camera in that moment, as the door opened and Jamie Fraser caught sight of me, clad only in a thin white towel that just barely reached the tops of my thighs. 

His eyes went almost comically wide as they flicked up and down my body, the lake-blue gradually darkening to a shade of midnight as they repeated the process again — lingering, smoldering — taking the time to drink me in. He opened his mouth to speak and then shut it again, only a strangled breath emerging through his parted lips. 

My cheeks were flaming, I was sure, and not just from the shower. I bit my lip, clasping the knot of the towel tight between my breasts. “Sorry,” I muttered with a sheepish smile. “Should have told you fifteen minutes.”

“Christ,” Jamie whispered at last, shaking his head. “No, it’s…” He took a hesitant step forward, his eyes trained on the hand I was clutching to my chest. He let out his breath in a pant of a laugh that etched the smile lines deep into his face. “If I’d known, I would have been here in five.” 

I laughed breathlessly too, looking at him through my lashes as he took another step toward me. He was just barely inside the threshold, and I was already trembling. I swallowed hard against a dry throat, slowly raising my free hand to graze the front of his chest, then slipping the silk of his tie between two fingers to draw him closer. 

Another two steps in, and Jamie’s hands settled at my hips, his long fingers curving down over the swell of my buttocks to grip me, pulling my hips in toward his. 

When he finally took that last step into me — our bodies pressed flush together so that I could feel him through his trousers, hard and urgent against my belly — the last of my self-consciousness dissipated in a burst of steam. I reached up to grasp him by the back of the neck, bringing his head down next to mine. Pressing my cheekbone to his, I tilted my jaw up until I could capture his earlobe in a soft bite, raking my teeth down the supple pink skin and then pressing my lips to his ear to whisper a three-word command.

“Bolt the door.”

The breath slammed out of him in a gust, and he tightened his grip on my arse, clutching me to him with one hand while he reached behind him with the other to push the door shut, bolt it, and slide the chain into place for good measure.

I’m not sure which of us moved first, but suddenly we were spinning, and my back slammed up against the polished wood door in the same moment that Jamie’s panting mouth sealed to mine. There was no hesitation — no questioning, tentative test of tongue or teeth that I’d experienced with every other first-time lover. We were ravenous, challenging one another for dominance as we pushed and clawed and tasted and bit, searing one another with a kiss that was nearly savage with want. 

It was unfair, the advantage he had in getting me fully naked; a single rip at the knot holding the towel together, and I was completely bare to him before I could even get his tie undone. He showed no sign of waiting for me to catch up, either; he broke the seal of our lips with a groan and began to kiss his way restlessly down the column of my throat, sideways over the span of both collarbones (pausing briefly to dip his tongue into the hollow between), then down the mound of my left breast. I threw my head back with a shuddering breath when his lips closed over the nipple, sucking twice before he licked a scorching trail back up my chest and then found my mouth with his again. 

When both of his hands readjusted to grab me at the juncture of buttock and thigh, I took my cue and jumped at the same time he lifted, winding my legs around his hips. His tongue dueled with mine in a fever as he carried me to the bed, and I managed to peel the uniform jacket off of him, loosen his tie, and get about half of the buttons on his shirt open before he sat down on the edge of the mattress with me in his lap. I tried to push him back so that I could finish undressing him, but Jamie resisted; using his size and strength to his advantage, he gripped me between my shoulder blades as he flipped me flat onto my back, and I let out a surprised mewl into his mouth right before he broke our kiss with a devastatingly handsome smirk. 

“Ladies first,” he insisted, and I lost all train of conscious thought as he began to kiss and nibble and lick a deliberate trail down the midline of my body, detouring from his dedicated course only briefly to suckle at both breasts and hip bones on the way down. 

By the time he reached his destination, I was trembling uncontrollably, my heart making a valiant attempt to hammer itself free of its cage. He parted me with warm fingers, and let his mouth linger over the slick, exposed, almost painfully sensitive flesh for a moment, teasing me with the moist heat of his panting breaths. 

“Oh God,” I choked out, half blind with want. “God, Jamie…” 

When his tongue made its first, slow, exploratory circle, both of my hands wrenched into the bedding, gripping the duvet in white-knuckled fists. Another full circle in the opposite direction, and my lungs seized, my mouth falling open in a near-silent _ “ah.” _ Jamie continued to experiment — serpentines, quick darting flicks, a half circle one direction before doubling back — learning my reactions and humming with pleasure when he successfully made me arch or drew a new sound out of me. He brought me to the shaking, white-hot precipice of orgasm three times, adjusting his rhythm at the very last moment, denying me completion only to kiss the inside of my thighs soothingly, dip his tongue inside of me, and start over. 

I’d never — never in my life — known pleasure like this. I was wild with it, feral, unhinged. I wanted it to last forever, and at the same time I wanted to sob with desperation every time he denied me the earth-shattering satisfaction he’d been building with unparalleled skill.

When he had me keening, arching off the bed into his mouth a fourth time, my lungs seizing and my thighs trembling around his head, I finally broke down and begged. 

“Ja—mie—” I gasped, unable to get any more than a single syllable out at a time. _ “Please. Please.” _

I felt him smile against me. He pressed an open mouthed kiss over me with one last swirl of his tongue, and then pulled away entirely. 

I let out a whimpering sound that encroached on a true sob as he slid up in bed alongside me, but he silenced me with a soft kiss _ (God, I could taste myself on him). _

“Dinna fash, _ a nighean_,” he murmured against my mouth. “I dinna intend to leave ye wanting.” He wriggled a hand between my lower back and the mattress and lifted, encouraging me to turn in, lay on top of him. “C’mere,” he whispered.

I complied shakily, lifting one knee over his hip and then easing myself up so that I was stretched out at length over him. I misunderstood his intentions and reached down between us to unbuckle his trousers, thinking he meant for me to ride him.

And he did… but not in the way I thought.

He shook his head, taking me by the elbows and drawing me up. I glanced at him inquisitively, and saw the spark in his eyes as he wriggled a bit further down on the mattress while he continued to pull me up. 

And then I understood.

My first instinct was to balk, to tell him no. I wasn’t sure why this felt more vulnerable, infinitely more intimate than what we’d just been doing, but it did; opening myself for him, straddling him, was something I’d only ever done with long-term lovers, someone I’d known and trusted for a while. Certainly never a first time, and not with a stranger from a bar. 

But strangely enough, I found that I wasn’t afraid of being vulnerable with Jamie Fraser. Perhaps it was because of how similar we were; how much we shared in common. Perhaps it was his genuine eagerness to please, the tender look of encouragement on his face. 

Perhaps it was none of that, and I was just desperate enough for an orgasm at that point that I was willing to pursue it in whichever way he would give it to me.

Either way, I found myself holding his gaze for reassurance as I crawled up to the top of the bed, settling my knees on either side of his head.

“Christ” he whispered, staring up at me with unabashed hunger darkening his eyes. “I think that’s the most beautiful sight I’ve ever seen, Sassenach.”

I didn’t have a chance to ask him what he’d called me before he spread my thighs a bit wider, taking hold of my hips and pulling me down to his mouth. He took a deep breath, nuzzled in deep, sealed his lips over me, and gently began to suck.

I slammed my hands into the headboard, every muscle and tendon in my body straining as I bucked frantically against the pull of his mouth. It took mere seconds before I was clamping down, shuddering, the pleasure blasting me open at the cellular level until I had devolved into a liquid organism, languid and molten. 

And still, he didn’t stop. Jamie clutched me tighter as I broke, refusing to let me arch away; he alternated lapping and suction as I crumpled, falling forward, sobbing, _ screaming_.

I didn’t know if it was possible to actually lose consciousness from an orgasm, but if it was, it happened then. I couldn’t remember much of anything from the next few moments; the world had gone white, spinning and vacant, and I was lost.

When I came back to myself, I was curled up on my side, breathing hard, my pulse roaring in my ears. Jamie lay next to me, watching me, smiling. His forefinger drifted, feather-light, over my skin, running over my chin, my hair, my arms, my breasts. At last he found my hand with his and drew it up to his lips, kissing the mound of my palm gently. 

I shook my head at him, at a complete loss. When I’d caught my breath and gathered my wits enough to form a coherent sentence, I murmured, “Where… in God’s name did you come from?”

His smile broadened into a grin. “Scotland.”

We both dissolved into laughter, curling in until our foreheads touched. Feeling suddenly shy as our giggles dissolved into hums and finally silence, I reached up to stroke his face. 

“Thank you,” I whispered. “That… that was…”

“My pleasure.” He turned his face to kiss the inside of my wrist. “Truly.”

I propped myself up on my hip, letting my hand drift down his half-bared chest, weaving a serpentine with one finger toward the waistband of his trousers. “I’m happy to reciprocate,” I offered, easing down the bed to place a series of kisses just beneath his navel. “If you’d like,” I murmured against his skin.

“Oh, I’m sure I’d like it just fine, Sassenach,” he laughed a bit breathlessly, putting a finger underneath my chin and tilting my face up to look at him. “But if it’s all the same to ye, I’d rather we…”

I hummed my agreement, crawling back up the bed and kissing a heated trail up his torso until I reached his lips again. Though my veins were thrumming with satisfaction, Jamie’s kiss was still hungry, urgent. I lay back against the pillows and let him climb on top of me, winding my legs around his waist to draw him in. I lifted my hips to meet him when he began to rock on instinct, our kiss escalating quickly until we were both panting into one another’s open mouths.

“Condom?” I gasped, biting his bottom lip as I finally succeeded in getting his damn tie all the way off and ripping the rest of his buttons open. 

“Aye,” he agreed without protest, disentangling himself from me long enough to get his wallet out of his back pocket and procure a foil-wrapped packet. He stood up and turned away from me, shrugging out of his open shirt, kicking off his shoes and socks, and finally pushing down his trousers and boxer briefs. I stared unabashedly as he did so, admiring the rock solid musculature of his back, arse and thighs. 

“God, do you _ live _ at the gym when you’re not flying?” I asked, suddenly self conscious of my own less-than-perfect form. I was naturally slender — long and lanky — but I lacked anything resembling the muscular definition of the marble statue standing in front of me. 

He glanced at me over his shoulder, raising an eyebrow in amusement. “Have to find something to fill my time, Sassenach.”

Smirking, I leaned back against the pillows and let my legs fall open. “I have some other ideas you might want to consider.”

“Oh, aye?” he murmured, and turned to face me head on. My eyes dropped instinctively to the long, heavy length of him, and I swallowed hard, feeling my pulse quicken in anticipation. Eyes heavy-lidded with rapidly rekindling desire, I nodded weakly as he knelt on the mattress and began to crawl toward me. 

“Aye,” I breathed. 

This time, when his mouth found mine, my kiss was just as ravenous as his. I pulled him down into the cradle of my body, twining my limbs around him and humming with pleasure at the sensation of his bare skin against mine. Jamie braced himself with his elbows on either side of my head, careful not to crush me, but letting the full weight of his hips rest against mine as he began a slow, teasing grind. When I gasped and arched up beneath him, he abandoned my mouth in favor sucking at my throat, then my breast, until I couldn’t take it anymore. Grasping his head in my hands, I forced him to look up at me. 

“Do it now,” I instructed hoarsely. “And don’t be gentle.”

Jamie didn’t need to be told twice. His eyes flashed like blue fire as he reached down between us, took his shaft in hand, and guided the tip into me. Once he was aligned, he reared back and rammed into me with all his might. 

I barely had time to throw my head back, shrieking in a gasp for air, before he’d pulled out and thrust back in again, driving even deeper the second time. He’d done more than his due diligence in prepping me, so the sudden, stretching burn of him felt almost _ too _ good too fast. As he found a hard, steady rhythm, driving into me with pistoning motions that lifted up and in, he kept finding the perfect spot over and over again. I clawed my nails into his back, seeking an anchor as my pleasure skyrocketed, trying desperately to fill my lungs between wordless, high-pitched cries. 

I shattered violently and without warning around a well-placed thrust, eyes blown wide and my mouth open in a silent scream. Jamie shuddered, his own mouth going slack and his brow furrowing in pleasure as I contracted hard around him. He stilled for a moment, giving me time to catch my breath as I collapsed flat against the mattress, the ceiling spinning above my head. 

I must have looked as winded as I felt, because after a moment he chuckled quietly and bent to kiss my sweaty brow. “Ye alright?”

“Jesus H. Christ,” I panted by way of response.

“No, Sassenach,” he hummed in amusement, kissing down the bridge of my nose and then capturing my lips in a quick kiss. “Just me.” 

I barely had time to choke out a laugh before he began to move in me again, and then it was all I could do to hold on for dear life as the world around me exploded in stars.

* * *

  
It was just sex, at first.

Mindblowing, incredible sex. 

And it only got better with time, as we learned one another’s preferences and tells — how and when to touch or taste, the tempo and depth and positioning that worked best for both of us. Jamie was a fast learner, but so was I; it quickly became almost a competition of sorts, to see who could break the other first. 

We were neck and neck most of the time — well matched opponents in a game we both loved.

At first we didn’t even exchange numbers; we decided the spontaneity was exciting, spiced things up a bit. We both knew which hubs our airlines shared, which airports we were likely to encounter one another in. When we bid on schedules, we kept that in mind — Heathrow, Atlanta or Boston were our best bets, although we’d bumped into one another in locations as exotic as Shanghai and as unlikely as Newark, New Jersey.

Sometimes we found each other when we both had a significant stretch off, and could linger in bed for days, taking our time to savor one another, draw out our pleasure deep into the night before starting in again the next morning. Depending on our mood, we’d either order room service and eat naked in bed, or we’d head out on the town on unofficial _ dates, _ finding new restaurants and hiking trails and historical sites that neither of us had ever visited before. Jamie kissed chocolate gelato off of the corner of my mouth on a starry summer night in Rome, and the next week I dragged him down to a secluded beach in Jamaica, where we slipped together in a glassy sea, moaning into each other’s necks. 

More often than not, though, our trysts were short and frenzied, sandwiched between layovers in whichever airport we both happened to be in at the time. Our record was fifteen minutes; lacking any other options, we locked ourselves in a private bathroom in the middle of JFK, where Jamie bent me over the sink, growling at me to watch in the mirror while he took me. 

We joined the ranks of the Mile High Club on a fourteen hour flight from Sydney to Los Angeles, tucked into the cramped bunk in the pilot’s quarters with Jamie’s hand clamped over my mouth to muffle my “wee noises.” The opportunities to repeat the experience were rare — one of us had to fly as a passenger on the other’s international flight to accomplish it — but the thrill of a secret, mid-air, on-the-job fuck was enough to get us to jump at any chance we got. 

And the longer our affair continued, the more our addiction to one another grew, until random chance encounters were no longer enough for either of us. After one stretch in particular in which we’d gone almost a month without bumping into one another, I finally spotted him in line at a Starbucks in Vancouver, and ran to him in tears. He caught me in a bear hug and picked me up off my feet, whispering into my hair, “Christ, I missed ye.” 

We exchanged numbers after that. Texted nonstop, sent each other screenshots of our schedules and began to coordinate efficiently to maximize our time together. 

He told me, finally, after six months of making me guess, what the hell a _ “Sassenach” _ was. With some prodding, he also translated his other nicknames for me: _ “a nighean” _ and _ “mo nighean donn.” _

Later that night, he’d breathed a new one into my mouth as I shuddered and cried out beneath him. 

_ “Mo chridhe,” _ he explained when we lay together afterward, sweaty and spent, his blue eyes shining with tenderness as he tucked a stray curl behind my ear. “My heart.”

Neither of us could pretend that it was just sex after that. 

The night I knew for certain that Jamie and I were meant to be something more — something permanent — was the night I met him at 2:20 AM in Seattle, raccoon-eyed and drooping after a sixteen hour flight. He didn’t say much of anything; simply wrapped his arm around me and tucked me against him, and walked me to the hotel with his lips resting on the crown of my head. When we got back to the room, he turned on the shower — as hot as it would go — and climbed in with me, only to shampoo my hair and rub my aching shoulders with soapy hands. I turned to him gratefully and began to drop to my knees, but he stopped me with a soft kiss, shut off the water, and told me to go throw on my most comfortable pajamas. Five minutes later, he crawled into bed behind me, spooned himself against my back, and stroked my hair until I fell asleep.

When I woke up twelve hours later to the smell of coffee and pancakes, I crossed the room to sit on his lap, kissed him senseless, and told him that I loved him.

That I was _ in love _ with him. 

We were married two weeks later.

* * *

_ THE HILTON AT BOSTON LOGAN INTERNATIONAL AIRPORT  
_ _ Wednesday, 2 May, 2019, 01:02 _

Jamie collapses beside me, panting, as he rolls onto his back. For a while we simply stare at the ceiling in silence, basking in the post-coital afterglow as our breathing slows and the sweat cools on our skin. His hand finds mine after a moment, and he brings my fingertips to his lips before guiding them down to rest over his heart. I can feel his pulse, hammering but steady, and try to match mine to his as I slowly close my eyes. 

“One year,” he whispers into the silence after what feels like a long time. I’m half asleep, and smile without opening my eyes, humming softly. 

“One year,” I echo. “That doesn’t seem possible.”

He shifts onto his side and puts a hand on my waist, encouraging me to slide up so that he can spoon around me. I comply without protest, and both of us let out contented sighs as his body molds to mine.

“Does it seem longer to ye? Or shorter?” he asks, his breath warm on my neck.

I consider that for a moment before answering. “Both. I’m trying to remember my life before you, and I’m coming up blank.”

He nudges his nose into my hair and kisses me just behind my ear. “My life started the day I met ye, Sassenach. I just didna ken it at the time.”

I hum contentedly, and bring his left hand to my lips. I kiss his empty ring finger, smiling when I note there’s a tan line there now. “You’re missing something, Captain Fraser,” I whisper.

“Aye, I am,” he agrees. “Hand it over, then, Captain Fraser.”

“What happened to ladies first?”

He chuckles, then leans back just far enough to remove the silver beaded chain from around his neck. He fumbles for a moment to undo the clasp with his big fingers, and eventually I take over the task for him. My wedding ring slides off the chain into my waiting palm, and I slip it back onto my left hand where it belongs. Jamie waits patiently while I pull the delicate chain from my own neck, remove his ring, and hand it back to him. 

We’ve done this since the beginning — since the very first, painful stretch of days that separated us after the bliss of our honeymoon. It was Jamie’s idea, the swapping of rings, carrying our spouse’s band over our hearts until we returned to one another. 

“That way ye’ll have a piece of me to take with ye,” he whispered as we parted miserably at the Delta Terminal in Atlanta, facing two long, lonely weeks apart. “As I carry ye with me, my Sassenach.”

Such a simple thing. But it helps, somehow. And every reunion is that much sweeter for it. 

We settle back together now, wrapped in the warmth of one another and exactly where we belong.

No matter where in the world our travels take us, home is with each other now.


End file.
